Guernica by Dave Boling

soap.”
    “I’ll give you some hints,” Alaia said, enjoying the game. “It’s made with a little oil extract so that it will serve as a
     lotion, too, and keep your skin soft and moist.”
    “There’s more.”
    “Yes, that’s the secret. I heard about it from a wise man one time.”
    “I can’t wait to try it out.”
    “There’s a pot of water that I warmed; strip off your blouse and give it a try,” Alaia said.
    “Alaia!”
    “Miren, I’m blind, you couldn’t have more privacy in the convent. Besides, you don’t have anything that I don’t have . . .
     except for eyes.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you, I’ve actually got less than you’ve got, if you have to know the truth.”
    Self-conscious against logic, Miren turned and tentatively removed her blouse and soaped her torso. She breathed in the fresh
     fragrance, splash-rinsed herself, dried off with a towel near the sink, and replaced her blouse.
    “Oh, I love this, thank you so much,” Miren said. “How could you know this would be so perfect for me?”
    “Because when I smelled it, I thought of you.”
    “I’ve never heard of anything so thoughtful,” Miren said, hugging her friend. “Now when I come near you, you’ll be able to
     identify me by my smell.”
    “Miren, I can usually hear you chattering with people long before I can smell you.”
    “But now when you hear those people talking to me, I’m sure they’ll be saying, ‘Oh, there goes Miren Ansotegui—doesn’t that
     girl smell nice?’ ”
    They hugged once more and Miren, without thinking, began tidying up Alaia’s worktable.
    “Miren . . . stop it.”
    “I’m sorry.” Miren put down the mixing bowls Alaia had been using. “I have a question for you, and feel free to tell me no
     if you are uncomfortable with it: Would you mind if I shared some of the new soap with my mother? I think she would love it,
     too.”
    Mariangeles did love the soap. And so did her husband, Justo.
    The Guardia Civil may have dispossessed Miguel Navarro in Lekeitio, but it did him the service of creating a job opening for
     him in Guernica. Raimondo Guerricabeitia, assistant carpenter in the shop of Teodoro Mendiola, was stolen off by armed guards
     one day on his walk home from work. No explanations were given to his family; he simply did not arrive home that evening.
     Without the formalities of charges or a trial, the Guardia planted Guerricabeitia in a prison. Was he a criminal? A revolutionary?
     Or did a neighbor betray him with a false claim to the Guardia?
    While not uncommon in other areas of the Pays Basque, such an abduction was still rare at the time in Guernica, where the
     Guardia mostly tolerated cultural displays and acted incursively only on tips. All that Mendiola knew was that Raimondo was
     a serviceable carpenter who gave no outward indications of political leanings. But someone may have said something, someone
     with a grudge. And he was gone as if erased.
    When Josepe Ansotegui sent to Mendiola a young shipbuilder in need of quick employment, the timing worked for all concerned.
     Josepe was delighted when he heard that he was actually filling a manpower void. Raimondo, though, was experienced and well
     past the apprentice stage. Mendiola ran a small but well-established business. His helper usually felled the trees and milled
     the lumber with a ripsaw and planer, while Mendiola constructed the furniture, cabinets, and hardwood flooring. The felling
     of the soft pines and cypress used for cabinets and inexpensive furniture was simple, but dealing with the old-growth oaks
     required greater exertion. At the least, the young man who delivered himself for work looked healthy and fit enough for the
     challenges of handling the obstinate hardwoods.
    “The recommendation of Josepe Ansotegui is enough for me,” Mendiola said when Miguel arrived. “I’ve known him and his brothers,
     Justo and Xabier, for a long time. Justo is filled with pride and hot air, and Xabier is